Light’s dedicate troops.
No chronicle spoke of the intimate strain, or the fear, as Lysaer had defied the swords of the temple war host to salvage the life of his helpless friend. True Sect scripture enshrined only the poisoned account of the Heretic Betrayer’s corrupted influence. Canon history of the Great Schism insisted that Lysaer s’Ilessid had turned apostate to the Light’s cause.
By unadorned truth, the withdrawal from Erdane had been triggered by ambush, and the harried retreat across Camris, a feat to save Sulfin Evend, condemned by a Sunwheel decree and at risk of being savaged by a zealot mob. Lysaer had been forced to wield light against his deluded pursuit. When the galley he seized escaped to sea out of Miralt, she had rowed into the gales of late autumn, while the handful of trustworthy officers forestalled her pursuit at the dock.
Of the bravest and best, none had survived to reach haven under the governor’s law at Etarra.
Oppressed by that history, Dace oiled the razor, and heaved the bucket of suds over the lee-side rail. No surprise, that his liege’s expression stayed wooden. For Lysaer, the clangour of temple bells and the northcoast combers breaking like slivered glass bespoke the ghosts of his sacrificed dead.
On this day, ruthlessly living, the faithful had multiplied a thousandfold. The True Sect Canon ruled Miralt, the established order emerged into view as the early mist lifted.
The dazzle of gold winkled first, where slant sunlight polished the egg-shell domes gilded over by temple revenue. Visible next, the milk outlines of buildings, block towers, and the spindled rails of the galleries crowning the headland in many-tiered splendour. Dull trade port no longer, the Light’s worship had repaved the town in palatial opulence, a necklace that shimmered like opal along the wide curve of the harbour. Shrines and sanctuaries and hostels overlooked the bleached wharves, where, in summer, the galleys of the Sunwheel priesthood rocked gently, their pencilled spars varnished citrine and amber, and rigging strung with white pennants streamed gold fringe like the glister of sparkling wine.
A fair vista, nested with coiled adders, and an insane prospect for a covert venture.
Breeze shivered the dew from the lines. Through the spangle of droplets, a skiff drawn up alongside delivered the pilot to steer the squat lugger to her paid dockage.
“I’ll be changing clothes,” Lysaer informed his servant. “Brush up a doublet and trousers tailored in plain cloth of respectable quality. Afterward, if you please, have my luggage strapped up and brought topside for landing.”
Lysaer’s choice to enter Miralt without artifice made tactical sense to his valet. The jewels sold off to hire his passage left coin enough for a respectable boarding-house lodging. Discarded also, the pretext of station, where glittering ornament would have attracted undue envy and curiosity. Yet modest trappings and impeccable manners allowed an unknown young man of good looks into the upper-crust practice hall. Lysaer was admitted to the stylish baths frequented by the unmarried dedicates and the idle rich.
Dace observed the seamless acceptance, primly composed, from the side-lines. A proper clean towel draped on his arm and his master’s kit parked at his feet, he was skirted like furniture by the more stylish servants. Many an impoverished aristocrat visited Miralt for holy penance, attended by faithful old serving-men.
But even plain cambric and linen could not reduce Lysaer to anonymity. His skill with the sword sparked whispered comments. Dace adhered to propriety. He disclosed nothing to sate the curious bystanders though ragged nerves made him sweat when an off-hand remark likened his master’s fair grace to the beauty of the divine avatar. Since Lysaer never mentioned his background, his admirers speculated on their own.
“Likely he’s from a family with too many sons and limited prospects,” suggested the whiskered fellow who managed the idlers’ wagers.
Heads nodded. Many an ambitious sprig came to Miralt chasing his youthful dreams. Scholarly hopefuls applied to the Light’s priests at the temple. The fiery idealists who craved adventure flaunted their prowess at arms, where their mettle might earn them a dedicate captaincy.
“That one needn’t lather himself in the ranks,” a wistful bravo observed.
His stout companion added a smirk. “Handsome enough to break hearts as he is? The right bed or marriage could better his station without risking his pretty neck.”
“Do you think?” another gallant remarked. “Those lovely blue eyes might string the ladies along. That heiress from Erdane whose father dropped buckets of gold as a temple offering? Well, she tried to plaster herself to his side. Got her charms refused with sweet words and no interest.”
Dace fretted, distressed by more than feminine overtures. Within two days, as the hall’s avid sportsmen learned not to waste silver on Lysaer’s opponents, the Sunwheel officers jockeyed to cultivate him as a recruit.
Their target smiled with disarming candour. Folded into their circle, he consented to spar with the elite dedicates in their company.
Ever discreet, Dace brought dry towels as bidden. He fetched water, not amused by the performance of youthful innocence. Lysaer risked lethal stakes, blindsiding Miralt’s most devout professionals. How long before veteran sword-play sussed out the experienced ripostes Lysaer withheld from his side of the practice match?
A week passed without incident. Too personable to seem devious, Lysaer masqueraded a talent too raw to clinch a decisive bout. Dace watched male vanity played without shame to side-step social restraints. A hired valet must support the brash act, while the back-slapping, over-confident victors swept their glum loser along to the bath.
There, hot water eased battered muscles, and more: amid rosy intimacy and veiling steam, Lysaer’s guile gave teeth to the statesman’s weapon of neutral silence. Loosened conversation echoed into the dressing-room where, meekly waxing his master’s boots, Dace watched the ploy of green innocence inveigle the dedicates’ confidence.
“… be fighting aplenty, lad. Not only against unbelievers, but the worst breeding enclaves of black practice. Opportunity’s ripe! The move against clanblood opens up a rare chance for early promotion.”
A mumbled answer, then somebody’s laugh, punched through by a derisive comment, “Well, who said an engagement with free-wilds barbarians gilds a man’s prowess with honour?”
Through splashes, a gravel voice added, “A campaign led by head-hunters? No detail for faint hearts. It’s like stalking beasts at perilous risk, rife with horrors and gutless wickedness.”
“Ah, lad, don’t be cozened,” a risen tenor cut through. “D’you suppose we’d give warning in jest? The pestilent creatures lay traps that can butcher an armed man like a noosed animal.”
Another’s grumble capped that salacious comment, “… not unjustified … the High Temple’s order dispatched The Hatchet to slaughter them to their last woman and child.”
Metallic chinks from across the dressing-room betrayed the sullen mood of the temple novices assigned to polish the dedicates’ harness. They clumped like inquisitive ferrets, adolescent heads shaved and toothpick limbs clothed in white tunics. Most had been sworn to the Light since their birth. Others were street orphans, inducted as penance for thievery. Past question, their strict sensibilities disapproved of the gossip bandied between their superiors.
Dace played blind and deaf. He reinspected his morning’s handiwork. The packed kit at his feet was immaculate, the brushed clothing hung, with fresh towels readied for the
